Watching You Die
by laureleaf
Summary: John watched Sherlock die three years ago, and Sherlock just watched John die. But neither of them are actually dead. A different take on 'The Adventure of the Empty House'. Lots of angst and post-Reichenbach feels. No slash.
1. Three sodden years

**A/N: **I wrote this right after I first saw the Richenbach Fall, as my first-ever fanfiction. Unfortunately, it got lost in my computer, only to be found recently. I've changed a bit as a writer since then, and my headcannon has changed a lot, but my wonderful beta star-eye (check her stuff out, seriously!) encouraged me to only do minor edits instead of massive rewrites.

It *should* be around 10 chapters. My regulars will tell you that that probably means it will be at least 20, but we'll see. I should be able to update weekly, sooner if the cliffhanger is too evil. I am not Moffat. Or Gatiss, or anyone of real importance to this wonderful show. Ergo, I own nothing. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

Three sodden years. Bastard. John closes his eyes. Sighs. The teacup in his hand starts rattling in the saucer. Damnit. Most of the time, he can keep it under control. He is Dr. John Watson, who has _not_ had a relapse in his psychosomatic limp. He does _not _have nightmares of a certain someone more often than Afghanistan. And he most certainty does _not_ miss the barmy idiot that he used to share a flat with. Definitely not. Because he is Dr. John Watson and he can stand on his own two perfectly sound feet and have a perfectly _normal_ life on his own.

Or at least pretend.

He's forced himself to go to Bart's at least once every week, walk right past _that_ spot as if it's just any other piece of sidewalk, not the place where his best friend bashed his brilliant brain all over the concrete. He hopes that over time the memories won't be quite so sharp, quite so painful. So far, it hasn't been working. The blood has long since been washed away, but all he still sees is red, red, red on that pavement.

He's forced himself to have tea with Mrs. Hudson every week too. Her mothering is a relief sometimes and a burden others. She's gotten new tenants. Nice normal ones, she says. John can tell that she doesn't like them, but she never says as much, just as she'd never admit to missing both her boys, especially the tall, handsome one. Or the fact that she really didn't mind being their housekeeper, which was just another name for mum.

He's forced himself to visit Scotland Yard every now and again, because Lestrade asked. At first it was awkward, everyone feeling guilty and refusing to look at him. Donovan _still_ ignores him like it's an Olympic sport. But John doesn't care what they all thought or what they did, they were wrong. People make mistakes. And then they move on.

Lestrade badly pretends everything is fine, nothing has changed, and still lets John in at crime scenes. Mostly for old-time's sake. But John sometimes notices things that the official police missed. A missing earring or a scuffed belt, an unusual rash or a particular scar, a peculiar smell…The little details that a certain smart-ass was forever pointing out. Lestrade knows better than to bring that up though, and they always go to the pub for a pint once they can leave.

John only ever has that one pint though. He vehemently refuses to let himself drink to ease the pain. He will _not_ end up like his father, choking on his own vomit till he died. He will _not_ be like Harry, losing everything she cared about to an unfeeling bottle. He's already lost everything he ever cared about, no point in trying to drink it away. So he only ever drinks his one pint of beer every now and again with Lestrade, to take the edge off the fact that he can never look at the world the same way again because of some abnormally observant git that he used to hang around.

But John can't observe the world today, can't even leave his apartment. Mycroft called (surprise, surprise). Said that there was a known sniper that just moved into the apartment complex across from his. That he had been seen watching John's movements. That Mycroft was _handling_ the situation and _not_ to do anything… rash. John had hung up on him. He never had much patience for the man. If he died, he died. He wouldn't mind. He would have fought, _had_ fought, and fought _hard_, before. But not now, when he didn't have anything to live for.

Suicide wasn't an option anymore. _Someone_ had made sure of _that_ with his little "note". Bloody git.

John always makes a good show outside of his apartment, of course. He has a steady job. He is good at it too, almost enjoys it. He can almost forget when he is there, helping people. But he always remembers when he comes back to his spotlessly clean apartment, clean because there isn't anything, any_one_, interesting in it to clutter it up. It's tiny, but always seems too large. Too empty. Too alone.

He dates. Without a jealous flatmate barging in every five minutes it's a lot easier. And harder. He tries to have a good time, he knows how to treat the ladies right, how to play the game called love. But it never works out. John is a broken man, dead inside, and they can tell.

He tries to stay healthy. He has time for three square meals a day (not that he eats much), eight hours of sleep (not that he can sleep much) and a trip to the gym as well. But John is still hungry in a way that has nothing to do with food, tired in a way that has nothing to do with sleep, and weak in a way no amount of muscle can fix.

His therapist is proud of him. He isn't surprised. He'd learned how to (almost) lie to one of the most observant men in the world—and his therapist isn't nearly _that_ good. She said he had made excellent progress, had grieved properly, had moved on with his life. _Right_. He updates his blog to keep her off his back, although hardly anyone follows it anymore because of the conspicuous lack of one dramatic idiot. He'd finally caved to the rather alarming amount of fanmail piling up at his old flat and had published a book version of the blog: Living with the World's Only Consulting Detective. It was still widely and wildly popular a year and a half later. He would never have to worry about flat-sharing because he was broke, that's for sure. He acts like he cares. He doesn't.

Writing that book was like stabbing himself repeatedly in the chest, wrenching out the words that he had said, that he hadn't said, as if they were bloody knives. He had honestly thought that after a while, every sentence, every word, every _letter_, would stop hurting as much as the last, that eventually he'd become numb, be able to ignore it. He had been wrong. Getting shot was far less painful than that final sentence.

John told the truth in that book. His friend wasn't a fake, couldn't possibly even fake a fake. Moriarty, on the other hand, was absolutely real. But he didn't say it in as many words—let the readers decide for themselves. If they couldn't separate the truth from the lies they were idiots that deserved to be deceived. So he was still following that last request. Sort of. He found that he didn't particularly care if he did or not.

Three sodden years. Might as well call it an eternity in hell and be done with it.


	2. Coming back

**A/N: **Here's Sherlock's perspective. Reviews are love: thanks for all the positive feedback for the last chapter :) Warnings for (apparent) major character death(s). As one of my favorite authors likes to say: angst and feels ahoy.

* * *

Sherlock was back. He had never really been away, of course. He couldn't bear to be away from London for any length of time. And Moriarty's web was the most intricate, most extensive, in this city. He'd never admit that there were other reasons. Such as John. Sociopaths didn't have friends, and they certainly didn't pretend to die to save said friend's lives, and they _definitely_ didn't miss them or regret making them feel like hell for three years. That was the lie he repeated to himself every day to try and ease the pain.

He had told himself repeatedly that a John that would never speak to him again was vastly preferable to a dead John. He wasn't sure if that was a lie or not. Either way, he'd never be able to live with himself.

But today was The Day. The big day. Mycroft was in the process of rounding up the last of Moriarty's henchmen. Sherlock could go back to living his own life again. Not one borrowed, or invented, or stolen from Mycroft's files. His own.

It was terrifying, walking down the street without a disguise. Sherlock felt _naked_. So vulnerable and unprotected. Like taking off a suit of armor while waiting for a hidden enemy to strike. After so long in hiding, standing openly in the light was foreign and disorienting. He felt a stab of fear every time someone looked at him, despite the fact that he knew that all but one of the members of Moriarty's web had either fled the country, were locked up indefinitely, or were dead. He had originally planned to briefly tour his beloved city on foot, but the burden of every stranger's glance was too debilitating. Calling a cab in his own voice, so little used that he'd almost forgotten what it sounded like, and giving his own address, so long unsaid that he almost couldn't recall it, was so nerve-wracking he almost couldn't breathe for several minutes afterwards.

_They are safe. It is finished. They are safe. I don't have to worry about this anymore. They are safe. It's over. _

Baker Street was the first stop. He threw Mrs. Hudson into hysterics when he showed up at the flat, but she recovered well. She always recovered well. Soon she was fully back into mother-hen mode, acting as if he'd never left. Thankfully she was too distracted with making him tea that she didn't notice the tears in her eyes were mirrored in his own.

_Home_.

How long had it been since he'd been able to use that word honestly? How long since he'd smelled that mixture of cinnamon and gunpowder and disinfectant that told him that he was safe in his sanctuary? How long since he'd tasted those special biscuits only his landlady-not-housekeeper (mum) knew how to make? Or eaten anything at all without worrying if it was poisoned or drugged, for that matter?

There were (annoyingly) new tenants in the basement but she assured him that she was about to get rid of them anyway. His old rooms were just the same. One of the few things that Mycroft had done right. They had been used (for a while at least) as something of a museum, which was also annoying. It also made him feel good in a strange way that he had been missed enough to be memorialized. Sherlock noticed a copy of John's book on the counter, beside the moldering test tubes. He'd read it, of course. He'd been flattered and hurt and surprised and saddened and impressed, but most of all he'd just missed John. _John_. Time for the next stop. He'd put it off for too long already.

Sherlock would never, ever admit it, but he was scared. He had thought of literally hundreds of reactions from John concerning his return. Even had a room dedicated to it in his mind palace. But he was sure John would still surprise him. What if he didn't want to talk? What if he was angry? Would he forgive him? Could things go back to what they were? Did Sherlock even want that?

Too many questions. Not enough data. Sherlock nervously fidgeted in the back of the cab. So much so that the cabbie noticed. "Date? You seem nervous." "_Obviously_," Sherlock replied, with as much sarcasm and distain that he could muster. A considerable amount. The unflappable cabbie wasn't deterred, unfortunately. "Everything will be alright, mate. Just be yourself." A moment's pause, the prepared snarky comment dissipating into the London smog. It had been so long since he'd been 'himself' that he'd practically forgotten how. He wore his Bellstaff like a disguise, turning up the collar to hide his face, not to show off his cheekbones. He strode because it was harder to identify and hit a moving target, not because it felt as natural as breathing. He barely recognized the man in the mirror as the same one that had walked out of 221B that fateful night. After everything that he'd been through, after everything he'd done… Sherlock hardly knew himself anymore. And that terrified him. If he had changed so much, how much had John changed? Would they fit together like the two lost puzzle pieces that they were, or would they be irreparably broken, jagged edges jarring together, only inflicting more harm?

Sherlock's phone vibrated as soon as he stepped out of the cab. Mycroft. [Mind your own business.] Sherlock texted. He ignored the next two texts and phone call as he walked into John's apartment building.

It was a normal, sterile, _boring_ place. Poor John. Sherlock would go mad within a day of living here. How could John stand it? It was ridiculously easy to bypass the security desk and get to John's floor. _Really, Mycroft, is this the best you can do to protect John?_ Sherlock thought. He did notice that John's block was reinforced though, and his door was bulletproof. But _still_…

Sherlock hesitated, hand raised to knock. The pause before the plunge. He'd done the same right before jumping… No. Not thinking about that. Deep breath. Knock. Before he lost his nerve. A mumbled response from the other side of the door. Sherlock assumed it was an invitation. He hoped it was an invitation. He'd almost worn a bulletproof vest just in case John thought he was an intruder and decided to shoot him. Sherlock had eventually decided against it because frankly, he deserved to get shot for what he'd done to John.

He opened the door, slowly. John was sitting by the window, reading. Strange. Something was _wrong_ with this picture. Sherlock was already halfway across the Spartan room before his brain caught up with his instincts. Sniper. Apartment across the street, professional weapon. Sights that were pointed at John.

_No. Dear God, please no. _

It was a scene out of his darkest nightmares. Time achingly inched forward, so sluggish that Sherlock felt he was slogging through molasses. He _knew_ he wasn't going to make it in time, but he tried with every fiber of his being anyway. But the best intentions are no match for the uncompromising laws of physics.

He was too late.

Sherlock saw John's head sharply snap back, spraying sticky-sweet blood across his own face. Then he felt excruciating pain sear through his shoulder, only exceeded by that of his shattering heart.

He was flat on his face, he didn't know how he'd got there, time rushing forward faster than it had been slowed down before. Sherlock could hear his heart thumping too loudly in his ears, pushing his blood into the bland carpet. _John_. He had been _moments_ too late. Tears streamed unchecked down his guilt-stricken face. _John_. It was fitting, in a way. That Sherlock should pretend to die, and John pretend to live, only for them both to perish moments before they could stop the façade.


	3. Ideas

**A/N: **As far as the last chapter... I did try to warn you... This chapter is more filler than feels, so you can have some recovery time before the next round ;) It really shouldn't be a surprise though, if you know your ACD. (I own nothing, btw) Thank you for all the lovely reviews that you wrote, despite the trauma I caused… I really appreciate!

* * *

_Six hours earlier__…_

John sat in his little bland apartment, trapped in a web he didn't know a thing about and couldn't care less about anyway. He was _bored_. Not in a shoot-the-wall-because-it-somehow-had-it-coming sort of bored. Just a nice normal sort, like regular blokes experienced. After all, he couldn't _do_ anything about the sniper. He just had to sit and wait and it riled him like nothing but Mycroft and inaction could.

_Bored_. He tried to not think the word in _that_ voice. He failed. Damn the man for ruining even ennui for him!

There was _nothing_ he wanted to do. John couldn't watch crap telly anymore because even now he could almost hear those baritone vocals screaming insults and interjections and corrections at the screen every time he tried to turn it on and it was _unbearable_. He didn't feel like reading or blogging or much of anything. John could now completely understood why the poor flat took a beating whenever there wasn't a case. If he could have mustered the energy, he'd do just about anything to escape the realm of the Bored. _If_ he could have thought of anything to do, that was... John couldn't even open the windows to look at the nonexistent view because he might get shot (again)! He almost did, if only to piss Mycroft off. Which gave him an idea. A wonderful, awful idea.

It had been a _long_ time since John had done anything even remotely resembling artistic. (Helping that utterly ridiculous cross-dressing actor-detective with his makeup for a disguise that one unmentionable time did _not_ count.) But he had a steady hand (most of the time), an excellent knowledge of anatomy, plenty of paper bags, more flour than he knew what to do with (because cooking for one was next to impossible, even now), and of course, time. Too much time, actually. So it didn't really matter that he didn't really have much skill or practice.

He sent the neighbor boy on an errand run to get some decent paint and a wig and some other supplies. Who knows what the lad thought his quiet neighbor was up to, considering that shopping list. John was glad he'd been absentmindedly bribing the kid with the cookies Mrs. Hudson insisted on baking for him every week. John hadn't really considered the collective oddity of some of those requests that when he wrote it up: he'd been given worse, _much_ worse, shopping lists in the past. He winced as memories of bloody body parts in crime scene bags and running to Tesco's at 3am and rows with pin-and-chip machines viciously resurfaced.

Trying to distract himself, he blew up a big red balloon and taped it to a piece of cardboard before layering on the first few strips of paper mache. He soon fell into a mind-numbing rhythm of dipping, smoothing, and shaping. John worked and fiddled and cursed (creatively) for hours, blissfully free of any flashbacks.

* * *

It was finished. An (almost) perfect model of his head. The coloring was a bit off, and the nose was a little lumpy, but that was ok. John was ridiculously proud of himself.

He was literally watching the last of the paint dry when he had another brilliant idea. A chair, broom handle, pillow, a few old clothes, some newspaper, and a bit of string, and John had a full-sized movable model of himself. He grinned like an idiot. He hadn't had this much fun since…

Nope. He was _not_ thinking about it. John was having fun and he was going to continue having fun and damn whatever happened three years ago today _it didn't matter right now_. He positioned the dummy just so, ostensibly reading a book, before carefully opening the curtains in such a way that he couldn't be seen. Every now and then he wiggled the model's arms to 'turn' the page, or shifted the chair so it looked like the pile of odds and ends was actually alive. He giggled quietly to himself, imagining Mycroft's reaction as he glanced at his watch.

Exactly one minute after his spectacular entrance (right on cue), John's phone rang. Unlisted number.

"_What are you doing, John_," Big Brother purred, "I _thought_ I _told_ you _not_ to do anything _rash_. Like sticking your head out your window like you _want_ to get shot!"

"Like my puppet, Mycroft?" John scathingly replied. "I'll admit, it's nice to be pulling my own strings for once. I thought the dummy was good, but _this_ is _precious_."

John relished listening to the silence on the other end of the phone. It wasn't something that happened when talking with Mycroft. Ever.

"This changes things," Mycroft finally recovered, "You should have notified me of your plans."

"As if you ever tell me any of _your_ plans! Especially the ones that _directly _concern _me_. Speaking of, why is the sniper trying to kill me? And why do you know? Or care? Your _brother_ is _dead_, due to _someone's_ miscalculations so I don't know _why_ you even _bother_ keeping an eye on me!"

Silence echoed across the line again. John was in good form today. He smiled even wider than before—yelling at Mycroft was one of the few things he actually enjoyed nowadays. John waited for a reply for another minute before he noticed that Mycroft had hung up on him. The smile diminished slightly at the realization. But not by much.

He maneuvered the puppet to look like it had fallen asleep before he went to the bathroom to wash the last of the paint, plaster, and glue from his hands. His phone started to vibrate. He ignored it—most likely it was Mycroft being a prick again.

* * *

Someone knocked on John's door. Probably one of Mycroft's men, come to babysit.

"Sod off!" he shouted through the toothpaste in his mouth. Somehow he had gotten glue in his teeth and the taste wouldn't come out. The door opened, hesitantly. Apparently John wasn't scarier than Mycroft. Their mistake. He turned from the sink just in time to see a tall black and purple blur fly across the room, almost as if to tackle his facsimile, only to jerk awkwardly at the same time the fake head exploded in a spray of red rubber and brown plaster. John, momentarily stunned, watched in slow motion as the freakishly gangly person fell facedown into the floor. He probably would have stood there indefinitely, toothpaste dripping down his chin, if the sight of the rapidly-spreading red stain hadn't yanked his battle instincts into immediate action.


	4. Shot

**A/N:** Sorry for the late update (thereby leaving you dangling on an evil cliffhanger for longer than was strictly necessary), but between three exams and two lab reports... yeah. Thank you for all your reviews, they really kept me going this week :) Preemptive apologies for yet another cliffhanger and potentially a late update.

So when you get bored of biting your nails and checking my page for nonexistent new chapters, you can check out the awesomeness that star-eye cultivates on her page instead :)

Please note that I have no knowledge of bullet wounds or the treatment thereof whatsoever.

* * *

_What the hell… _John thought as he dashed across the room, pulling the blinds. Mycroft would take care of the sniper. He _better_. John glanced around his once-pristine flat as he ran across the room towards his medical kit, surveying the damage. The destruction of the dummy wasn't unexpected, of course. But someone trying to save it was. John snagged the lifesaving bag, turning towards the victim who had almost been the puppet's savior. He couldn't see the person's face, hidden as it was by the carpet and a mass of curly black hair, but that didn't matter: identity didn't concern John when he was in 'Captain-Doctor mode', a term a certain walking computer had once coined. Only saving the dying and not dying himself mattered. Jumping down beside the injured man with a sickening _squish_ from the blood-soaked carpet, John thought he heard his name. Quickly analyzing the situation, John spoke comfortingly over the distressed but incoherent mumblings and quiet weeping.

"It's all right, you've been shot but I'm a doctor. You're going to be fine," John said in his best doctor voice. "I need to flip you over to get to the wound, it's going to hurt," John grunted as he turned the man over. His patient wasn't exactly heavy, but he _was_ all arms and legs, making him unwieldy. He heard a stifled groan of pain from the man as he was moved, nothing more. It was oddly familiar, that sound. John ignored it. He had better things to be thinking about. He ripped off the bloodied shirt, revealing a strangely familiar pale chest, coated in blood gushing from a ragged hole in the man's shoulder. The left one. John hissed in empathy while pressing a wad of gauze onto the wound, one hand keeping pressure while the other scrabbled for his phone. His patient was quickly becoming paler than he was to start with, breathing becoming labored. Dr. Watson knew how to treat this, but would prefer not to do surgery on his (relatively) filthy floor if he could avoid it. This man, whoever he was, needed a hospital and he needed it now. John finally located the phone, pressing his least favorite speed dial. Without any attempt at preamble, he snapped, "There's a wounded man in my flat, I'm assuming one of yours, send medical personnel immediately. Sniper round to the left shoulder, possible arterial involvement, bullet lodged in the scapula. I hope, for your sake, you've got the sniper, _Mycroft_." He hung up.

Backup was on its way. John felt a slick grip on his arm, causing him to wince, memories he really didn't really need right now painfully resurfacing. He intentionally but gently shook the hand away, focusing on controlling the bleeding until help arrived. He'd found from hard experience that it was easier to forget when he kept his mind on the job. Mycroft better hurry, the man didn't have much time left. The wrist John had been holding to keep track of his patient's fluttering heartbeat twisted suddenly so that they were in a form of handshake. One bloody hand clinging to another. "_John_," the dying man managed to gasp forcefully. John's heart stopped as his eyes met Sherlock's for the first time in three years.

* * *

John was dead. Sherlock had seen him die, felt the blood splatter. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. _No no no no _NO. Sherlock found it hard to concentrate, his mind starting to drift, drift away with the blood dripping on the carpet. It was so difficult to breathe, so difficult to keep his eyes open. There was nothing left to fight for, so why try? Through the red fog of pain, Sherlock saw someone leaning over him. Is this what death is? It didn't scare him. He'd died before. This hurt much less, really dying, instead of ripping out the heart he most definitely had, despite what anyone (including himself) said, to pretend to die. The person turned, profile lit up by the window behind him. _John_. Death wasn't so bad after all, if John was here. Maybe all that mumbo-jumbo his mother had made him sit through on Sunday hadn't been _all_ irrational lies. Sherlock tried to talk, tried to get John's attention, but he couldn't get enough air. So he swiped randomly with a numbed arm, eventually catching John's forearm. John ignored him, shook him off. _Why?_ Sherlock tried again, this time managing to get a good grip on John's hand. "_John_," he gasped through the pain and the delirium. The two dead men's eyes met.

John turned two shades whiter, eyes widening like he was seeing a ghost before squeezing shut.


	5. Curses

**A/N: **If this chapter seems a bit cracked, that's because it is. I've always wanted to do this so now I have ;) Warnings for cliffhangers and implied foul language.

* * *

_It can't be_.

Then the paramedics were there, an efficient bustle of emergency red and white, ferrying the wounded man away. John numbly followed. _It can't be. _

He wasn't exactly sure how he made it to the hospital. He found himself in an abnormally uncomfortable chair, staring at the floor, mind perfectly blank. He stood up suddenly, knocking over the chair he'd been sitting on. He didn't care. He hadn't cared about anything for a long time. Exactly three years, actually. A man, whose wardrobe practically screamed "Mycroft employee" started towards him. John stared the gorilla-in-a-tie down. "Take me someplace quiet I can go and let off some steam," he said calmly. Mr. Suit wordlessly led him through a seemingly endless maze of hospital rooms, eventually opening the door in the psychiatric ward. _Perfect_, John thought, eyeing the padded white room.

As soon as the door closed, he proceeded to curse the Holmes brothers in every possible way he knew how, which was quite extensive. Primary and secondary school had given him the necessary swearing basis of any self-respecting male. College added several creative variations and specifications, while his unofficial army training had added a whole new level of profanity. Being a doctor, obscenities were an occupational hazard, and being an _international_ doctor and soldier, John had picked up several languages worth of improper lexicon.

He started simply, the usual swearwords, some of which were so commonplace that they hardly even counted. Then he got more vulgar, then more creative, before waxing eloquent with some oaths that would have done Shakespeare proud. He ranted and raved and paced and frothed and waved his arms and spat out profanities in a way that he didn't even know he was capable of. It was almost poetic. He was 100% sure that Mycroft was recording the whole thing, and his only hope of keeping it off of YouTube was to make it so embarrassing that it never even made it to a BEYOND TOP SECRET file. After a few more minutes of vulgarities John found that he didn't even care if it did make the Internet, and he said as much. It would show the world what utter morons (he didn't use such nice words, of course) the Holmes brothers were, dead or alive. He kept at it until he ran out of unique obscenities. He then started combining them in new combinations. But he never repeated himself. He'd learned that technique in boot camp. He could keep this up for days, if he wanted.

But eventually, his voice gave out. John slumped against the padded wall, deflated. He felt a little better, a little more in control of a world spinning wildly out of control. His daft friend didn't die when (if?) he jumped off the roof. He'd been alive these three blasted years. And he hadn't told John. But now he could be dying. In a way, it would be simpler if he did. John could just pretend that the man bleeding into his carpet had just been one of Mycroft's peons that had unfortunately been in the wrong place at the wrong time. John wouldn't have to face the fact that his best friend had put him through hell, only to try and save his life and almost die for real while doing it.

John started pacing again. What if this _was_ all in his head? He already had a history of psychological problems, and heaven knew he'd been through enough to drive a sane man crazy, never mind someone that was already half-mad to start with. What if the man bleeding out on his carpet _was_ just some random government worker with an unfortunate resemblance to someone John once knew better than he knew himself? The genius was, no, _had been_ an inconsiderate prig, of course, but not on _this_ grand of a scale. He would have told John if he had lived. He _would_ have, _right_? John had watched him fall, watched the blood drip into the gutter. There was no way anyone could have survived that, and no way that that body wasn't his. John was no genius, but he figured it was a safe bet to assume that once a person died, they stayed dead. (Unless they were Jesus, but although the high-functioning sociopath pretended he was god John doubted that counted.) The man had died, was dead, and buried. There would not, could not be a resurrection on the third year.

_Sherlock. Was. Dead._ John _knew_ this, and _hated_ it. He'd asked him once to come back, during those first horrific days. He'd meant it too, and he'd almost believed it could happen. But hope was a deadly thing. And John was a survivor. The man who had been shot in his flat was _not_ the man who had jumped off a roof and crushed John's life. He _couldn't_ be.

But what if he was? John would have screamed if he had any voice left. Damn his blasted brain. Damn eternally-springing, irrational hope. Damn Holmes, both of them, wherever they were.

He had to see the man, _whoever_ he was. He _needed_ to know.

For reasons John decided not to question, they hadn't locked him in. If he was in charge, he would have definitely not let himself out, not after _that_ display. One of Mycroft's men was waiting outside of the padded room with a glass of water in one hand when John cautiously peeked into the hallway. John's throat was on fire, but he refused to take the beverage on principle. He glanced at the clock down the hall. It had been hours and hours since he'd left his apartment. _Good. _Whoever-it-was would be out of surgery by now, providing there hadn't been any complications, and would probably be awake. _Even better_.


	6. Tears of a Sociopath

**A/N: **Sorry for making you wait... I'm working on something special- I'll be posting it later this week :)

Warnings for self-harm and suicidal talk.

* * *

_It can't be._

John was dead. _Not John oh God please not John. Anyone but John. Please._

Sherlock lay in the uncomfortable hospital bed, willing himself to die. There was no point in living anymore. He had pretended to die to protect John, had hunted Moriarty's henchmen across the world to protect John, and he had failed. Utterly failed, at the last possible moment.

He remembered walking into John's rooms, seeing the sniper, watching John's head snap back. The rest was just a blur of pain. John was in there somewhere. A near-death apparition. Sherlock wishes it had been real, that they were both dead. At least they would be dead together.

The nurses had come and gone, Mycroft had made his obligatory appearance and then had vanished without saying a word, engrossed with someone screaming vulgarities on his phone. Sherlock had briefly wondered who it was—not many people were powerful or brave or stupid enough to yell at Mycroft, and even fewer whom Mycroft actually listened to. But Sherlock had dismissed the thought. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore. Sherlock was alone. He'd always been alone, before John. He hadn't minded it before. He'd dealt with it, barely, for the last three years, clinging to the hope of coming back, of regaining his life, returning _home_. He couldn't stand the loneliness now.

As soon as he had emerged from the drug-induced haze caused by the surgery, he had dug up, dusted off, and laid out every decision he had made since John had handed him his cell phone, lifetimes ago, with the horrified whisper of "He's back, Sherlock." He tried to pinpoint _where_ exactly he had gone wrong, what he could have done differently, if there had been any chance of getting rid of Moriarty and his web without his apparent death, without John's death. The _what-if's_ had quickly piled up in Sherlock's brain, drowning him in uncertainty and self-doubt. The morphine had long since worn off, but he hadn't pushed the button for more. For once in his life he didn't want the drugs, didn't want the sweet relief. He deserved the pain for torturing the best man on earth for _years_, for failing to save the man who had saved his own life so many times he'd lost count, for betraying the man who would have died for him without question. But the ripping agony in his body didn't drown out the raging torment in his heart.

_Three years_. One thousand and ninety-six days. Twenty-six thousand, two hundred and ninety-seven hours. One million, five hundred and seventy-seven thousand, eight hundred and forty-seven minutes. He should have worked harder, should have pushed his transport further, should have made fewer mistakes, should have obliterated Moriarty's web faster. _Three years_. John was probably happier dead.

Sherlock had begged Mycroft for the surveillance footage. He _knew_ it was a bad, ridiculously emotionally-driven decision. It wouldn't help him with the Job. But he wanted, no, _needed _to see John. Sherlock had already known what to expect, and had tried to prepare for it, but watching the grainy videos was always a blow to the gut, no matter how many times he saw them. A blow with a rusty mace by a battle-crazed Viking.

John's trips to Sherlock's grave were by far the worst. To see _exactly_ how _badly_ Sherlock had broken him, and how John still carried on, like nothing was wrong. To watch him in pain, terrible pain, pain that Sherlock had caused, was causing, and would continue to cause, while his hands were uncompromisingly tied. To be forced to do _absolutely nothing_ to alleviate John's suffering beyond whispering empty words to an inanimate computer screen was an exquisite and perpetual agony.

There hadn't been any other way, Sherlock knew. He _had_ to die to call off the snipers. If he had been less dense, he might have avoided it, but at that moment it was the only viable option.

He couldn't have taken John with him, either. Moriarty's henchmen were watching John's every move. If he had disappeared, it would have been obvious where he had gone. Sherlock needed to stay dead. With him out of the picture, Moriarty's men made mistakes. Big ones. So John had to stay in London while Sherlock roamed the globe.

He'd tried to tell John, he really had. But after the conversation from the roof, he wanted to do it in person. John deserved better than a phone call. Or, even worse, an email or an emotionless text. But there was no way Sherlock could meet with John without running the very real risk letting the whole world know that he was alive. The price for that gamble was higher than he could possibly afford to pay. Sherlock told himself that by not telling John he had saved hundreds of lives and prevented thousands of crimes. Thinking back, though, it wasn't worth it.

People said he didn't have a heart. They mocked him for being coldhearted, emotionless. It wasn't true. Sherlock had feelings, he just didn't express them in the conventional ways. And he refused to acknowledge them when he knew they would do more harm than good. But just because he neglected to indulge his emotions, didn't mean they were nonexistent. In fact, one could argue that they were more intense because they were repressed.

There were very few things Sherlock truly cared about, and even fewer people (he could count them on one hand). John was by far the most important. And John was dead. And it was completely, utterly, and irrefutably Sherlock's fault. It couldn't be more his fault if he had pulled the trigger himself.

Sherlock came to a decision. The _instant_ he was able to, he would do his suicide again. Properly this time. _Anything_ was better than this… this _guilt_.

_John_.

He leaned his head back against the scratchy pillow, sobs wracking his aching chest, the tears pouring from his closed eyes completely unchecked.


	7. Pandora's Box

**A/N: **Sorry for the late update... It's shorter than usual too... *hides* I'll do better next week, promise!

And yes, I will finish my Halloween fic as soon as I come up with a suitable demise for Anderson ;) You guys gave me so many good ideas, I can't decide!

A HUGE thank you to T'Paya for the help with the medical stuff in this chapter!

* * *

John stood in front of the plain door, shaking, trying to pull himself together enough so he could fall apart again. Three sodden years. Three years of grief and pain and mindless wandering, going through the motions but not caring about them. And the answer might be behind this door. John steeled himself. He was Captain John Watson, and he had faced bigger demons (he couldn't remember when though, but that didn't matter) than this and had beaten them. He could and would do this. He reached his (perfectly steady) hand out and turned the knob. He felt like he was opening Pandora's box, releasing all the misery and torment in his soul. But in the bottom of that box was a tiny fragile bit of hope.

It was a typical hospital room, with the generic wallpaper and uncomfortable chairs, the quietly beeping monitors gathered around an alarmingly white bed. John forced himself to look at its occupant.

_It can't be. But it is. _

His leg dropped out from under him, forcing him to slump back against the door despite his cane. But his blue eyes never left the eyes of steel that John thought he would never see again in this life. Eyes that were staring at him like _he_ was the one back from the dead, not _Sherlock_.

* * *

Someone's at Sherlock's door. He can see the outline through the glass, and he wonders why they are pausing. Sherlock wishes they'd just get over it and come in. Then he can ignore them and continue with his suicide. For real this time.

The door opens slowly, hesitantly, hinges squeaking slightly. The man's head is turned, scanning the room. Instinctively, Sherlock starts observing him. _Grey-blond hair. Stressed. Jumper. Military bearing. Limp. _The man turns and their eyes meet, clear and stormy skies. _John._

_JOHN._

Sherlock wants to jump up and grab him, to make sure he's real and not some figment of his overactive imagination. He was _dead_ Sherlock _saw him die_ but he's learned not to trust his eyes alone anymore. He needs to corroborate the data with his other senses—to hear John's voice and touch John's jumper and smell John's unique blend of cotton and gunpowder and tea. Then he will _know_. And he needs to know _now_. He's needed John for the last three horrific years and he's _right there_.

_JOHN!_

* * *

John bit back a yell as Sherlock's eyes rolled back into his head, which thumped unconsciously against the bed. The myriad of monitors began to wail incessantly, doctors and nurses rushing into the room, pushing John awkwardly to the side. No no no no NO. Not now. Not _again_. John glanced at what monitors he could see. Something was not quite right… There!

"STOP!" he ordered in his best military voice. Everyone in the room, against their will, instantaneously froze mid-action.

"Syncope," he explained in the same tone (but less volume, as his voice is now _completely_ shot) as he picked himself off the floor. "I startled him, and he fainted."

"I'm sorry sir, but…" one of the nurses attempted to placate him as the other personnel returned to their jobs in keeping Sherlock alive.

"I'm _his_ doctor," John enunciated slowly, purposefully, projecting throughout the small room despite his raspy vocal chords. "I'm also a highly qualified trauma surgeon. He fainted. Not unusual, for him… And make sure he hasn't tampered with any of his equipment or medications."

"Dr. Gilford, you might want to have a look at this," one of the nurses said nervously.

John couldn't see what they were looking at, but he couldn't help the self-satisfied I-told-you-so look that spread across his face as he watched the doctor's eyebrows attempt to touch his receding hairline.

"You!" he snapped, pointing at John. "Doctor…"

"Watson. John Watson," he supplied.

"Watson. How could you _possibly_ know that he would adjust his supposedly-tamper-proof-PCA to deliver a fatal dose of morphine the next time he pushed the button?" the doctor skeptically interrogated as the nurses disconnected the machine.

"He's messed with the medical equipment before... Sherlock hates hospitals—he inevitably gets bored," John said, feeling oddly detached from this surreal situation. When he returned to earth, however, he was going to _murder_ Sherlock.

"You probably saved his life," Dr. Gilford admitted as Sherlock's vital signs showed rapid improvement.

"Wouldn't be the first time," John replied tiredly. "Probably won't be the last time either."

"Try not to spook him again when he wakes up, ok? If he had _that_ violent of a reaction, you two need to have some history to work out," Gilford said with a wry grin.

"You have _no_ idea," John groaned.


	8. What a man can do

**A/N: **Yeah, so I lied. Another shorty. (Sorry!) I blame real life and homework. Quote is from _Pirates of the Carribean: the Black Pearl. _Warnings for evil cliffhangers.

* * *

After the doctor and nurses left, John sank into the chair in the corner of Sherlock's room. A few moments later, one of them returned with two steaming cups of tea. Saintly woman. John nodded his thanks, briefly wondering how she'd known that he took his tea with milk and Sherlock took his with sugar. He was too frazzled to remember if Sherlock should be drinking tea quite yet anyway. Didn't matter. Sipping the calming brew, John turned his mind to the more pressing issue.

Sherlock wasn't dead, hadn't been. And he had failed to let John, his best friend, heck, his _only_ friend, know. Why? John pushed that thought aside. He had never been able to understand Sherlock's bizarre reasoning, he wasn't about to try now. He'd ask him when he woke up, and if he didn't like the answer he'd…

What? Punch him in the face? The git definitely deserved it. But John couldn't imagine himself hurting someone, anyone, who was already lying in a hospital bed. Yell at him? The bastard definitely deserved that too. But John's voice was still raspy from his stunt earlier; he didn't really have the voice for a proper screaming admonishment.

He could pretend like nothing's changed, that the last three years never happened, and go back to how things were before Moriarty came and destroyed everything. Impossible.

He could ignore Sherlock, John supposed. Just walk out of the hospital and never look back. Move to America or something equally cliché. And if his erstwhile friend ever dared to knock on his door, he'd act like he was a stranger. Impossible.

What was he supposed to do now? Before, it had been school, then the army, then nothing, then Sherlock, then worse than nothing. He couldn't go back to his bloodstained flat and he certainly couldn't go back to Baker Street. Not after all this.

John buried his head in his hands, trying to sort out the shambles of his life. _Sherlock is alive._

He'd forgotten what it felt like to _live_, not just _survive_. To be able to laugh, really laugh, until his stomach positively ached with mirth and tears ran down his face, to be able to eat Chinese take-away without feeling sick, to ride in a cab without being afraid, to watch crap telly without breaking down, to see graffiti without wincing, to walk down the street without that blasted cane… he'd forgotten such things were even possible. John had blocked those memories out, a vain attempt to quell the storm inside. Seeing him, Sherlock, released the floodgates.

He suddenly recalled a quote he'd heard in a movie, years ago: "The only rules that really matter are these: what a man _can_ do and what a man _can't_ do." It was true.

He _can't_ continue the way he has for the past three miserable years.

But he _can_ forgive Sherlock.

Probably not immediately, and possibly not completely. But he'd always managed to forgive the body parts and the mess and the noise and the noxious experiments and the ungodly hours and the insults and the lies before so he'll probably be able to manage to forgive Sherlock for this. Even if the genius's reasoning for the deception was totally ridiculous. It usually was.

If, however, said ridiculous excuse was "It was for an _experiment!_" all bets were off.

* * *

The first thing Sherlock senses is the smell. Tea. Warm tea. Nearby. Then the sounds, the quiet beeping of his monitors, the incessant hum of activity outside his door. When he opens his eyes the room is dark, but he can just make out the tantalizing beverage on the side table. He tries reaching for it, only to find that he's too weak to move. His shoulder hurts, but it's a distant pain. His thoughts are muggy too. Drugs. He struggles against their influence, trying to coordinate his uncooperative limbs, freezing like a guilty child when the lights flick on.

John is standing by the door, hand on the switch, a strange look on his face.

JOHN.

The memories come crashing back. JOHN ISN'T DEAD. Relief floods Sherlock, his aching chest so full of emotions he doesn't know how to express and he fears he'll burst from all the _feelings_. Sherlock is about to speak, to release the churning inside with words, oh so many words, when John raises his hand imperatively.


	9. Ghosts

**A/N:** More warnings than usual this week… graphic imagery (blood and guts), a bit of mild swearing, angst, cliffhangers, and did I mention angst? And angsty cliffhangers? You have been warned.

Once again, it's shorter than I'd like to give you for waiting patiently all week, but hopefully I made up the lack of quantity with quality. One of my favorite things about fanfiction is how it can connect you with people all over the world. In that vein, a big shout-out to all my wonderful Polish readers, who are only surpassed in number by my fellow Americans. Dziękujemy!

And I personally think that John's a tad OOC in this chapter. Usually he's not this verbose, but I really wanted to explore his reaction to Sherlock's almost-suicides.

* * *

"I've seen a lot of men die, Sherlock," John rasps, the name strange on his tongue. It had been years since he'd allowed himself to even think that name, much less say it. "And I've killed a good number myself. Through my mistakes, for Queen and Country… for you." He takes a deep breath. He hadn't thought about that for a while. He hadn't _had_ to. John had been too upset over one particular death he thought he'd caused to think about the ones where he _knew_ he had.

He forcibly stops that train of thought and starts over again. He wants, no, _has_ to get this right. "I've seen a lot of men die, Sherlock," he says again, knowing that Sherlock hates repetition but he'll have to deal with it. Heaven knows he's put up with all hell and then some for the man on the bed, he could at least return the favor occasionally. "Good men, bad men, boys even. Women and children too. Peacefully… and not so peacefully," John pauses, letting this sink into Sherlock's idiot head. Damn, there's a lot of death in his past, blood on his hands. He plunges ahead anyway, ignoring the ghosts to deal with the one who has come back to life.

"I've held them as they died in absolute agony, Sherlock. Utter torment. Legs blown off, arms broken and wrenched into unnatural positions, guts strewn across the sand, brains visible through their cracked skulls, blood pooling on the pavement." Another pause. This time, it's for Sherlock, who has turned his face into the pillow, eyes squeezed shut as if John's face pains him. "_Look_ at me, Sherlock," John orders quietly. Sherlock _needs_ to understand him in this, and he can only say it once. The silver eyes snap open. "The worst part of it was that none of them deserved to die. They deserved life, and I tried to give it to them, but sometimes there was absolutely nothing I could do to save them or to spare them their pain. And then _you_ decide to abuse the very medicine that would have..." John grits his teeth against the memories and stares Sherlock in the eye, willing him to understand, hoping against hope to find some sort of human guilt or sorrow or _any_ sort of emotion at all.

Sherlock stares back, unreadable. Something more inside John shatters.

Abruptly changing topics, he savagely whispers, "Of all the ways to fake your death, you picked suicide. _Suicide_ Sherlock! You. Made. Me. Watch! Can you even begin to comprehend…?" John's voice cracks. He carries on anyway, tears starting to pool in his eyes. "No, of course not. Because you couldn't stand the grief of losing me for _three bloody HOURS _and I had to _live_ with that _and_ the guilt of having _killed you myself_ for _THREE DAMN YEARS!_" he roars with his broken voice. "You bloody idiotic bastard," he mutters, almost as an afterthought, tears falling freely now. Sherlock looks properly ashamed, at least, the studiously blank look scared away by his outburst. John forces some steel into his cracked and weeping vocal chords. "You _died_, Sherlock, you _died_ and left me _alone_ to rot. And _nothing_ _ever_ has _hurt_ me worse than that."

He stops, waiting for Sherlock to finally respond to his tirade. To defend or at least attempt to justify his actions.

Silence is his only response.


End file.
